


In Your Head

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Mental Breakdown, Waycest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everything is literal, and not everything's a dream. AU-ish!</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> For [the porn battle X](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/30726.html?view=4106246#cmt4106246) for the prompt "Mikey/Gerard, panic"

  
When Gerard visits him the first time, Mikey’s curled in a ball in the corner of the room. The room’s brightly lit, and the doctors tell Gerard that they never turn the lights off. It’s a trade off because Mikey can’t sleep in the light, but the few times they’ve let the room go dark, Mikey’s started throwing himself at the walls and the door and screaming like he’s about to die. They’ve reached the compromise of allowing Mikey to sleep under his bed, a blanket draped over to dim the lights enough that he can let the exhaustion take over for a while.

They tell Gerard that he hasn’t slept in three days though, hence calling him and inviting him here – ordering more than inviting, but he’ll let them have their polite terms – to see if he can get through to Mikey. He thinks it’s a bad idea, not because he’s bad for Mikey, but because the stench of the Paramour hangs around him like an aura. He’s tried to shake it the entire drive over here, letting the open windows blow air around him like a vent. He still feels it clinging to his skin and he wants to shower before he steps through the door. He can’t, of course, and he can’t keep stalling.

“Hey, Mikes.”

He shuts the door behind him and sits on the edge of Mikey’s bed. The sheets are soft from multiple washings and the blanket is rough against his palm. The air smells like Mikey, humid and sweaty and something more, something that makes Gerard think maybe ‘uncomfortable’ has a smell. Mikey doesn’t look up from where he’s hunched over, examining the back of his hands. His eyes are unfocused, even with his glasses, and the lenses are smeared practically opaque.

“Mikey?”

Mikey doesn’t look up, doesn’t actually acknowledge him, but something in the room feels like it shifts and Gerard knows that, for whatever else, Mikey’s heard him. It’s unnerving talking to himself like this. He and Mikey have never really needed words or have finished each other’s sentences, words tumbling like over-anxious puppies to get out. This is just the absence of Mikey – his voice and his thoughts and whatever else it is that makes him _Mikey_. This is like the shell that held Mikey together has shattered and everything inside him has exploded out and left a husk.

“I drew you something.”

He eases off the bed and onto the floor, keeping a few feet between them. He takes the paper out of his pocket and unfolds it, laying it on the concrete between them. It’s a picture of Mikey in his favorite t-shirt, the black Judas Priest that’s faded to a sickly bluish-gray from so many wearings and washings, and a pair of black jeans that have holes in them at the knees, the groin and just under the back pocket on the left side. It’s quintessential Mikey from their 2005 tours, only his skin is tinged green, his eyes wide and unseeing and his mouth a mess of black and red. His glasses are on the end of his nose, unneeded and unheeded, all of his senses obviously focused on the subject of the word balloon above his head.

“Brains.” Mikey whispers, and Gerard’s not completely sure he hears it until Mikey looks up, blinking his way back into his eyes. “Not going to find any on Warped.”

Gerard blinks back for a minute then starts laughing, burying his giggles in his hand as he leans forward, hunching in toward Mikey. Their heads touch and Gerard can feel the pressure of Mikey against him. There’s tension and panic coiled under Mikey’s skin, seeping through their one point of contact like osmosis. It bleeds through and Gerard looks up as Mikey does and, in that instant, it’s like he can see it all from inside Mikey’s head.

The Paramour opened something up, or knocked something down and left everything about Mikey vulnerable. His worst fears and soft spots left exposed and open to whatever it is in the house and his own imagination, twisted darker by his depression. His one relief has been Gerard, able to crawl into the bed or even just the room, keeping ghosts and demons at bay by virtue of someone else to stand guard. And now, here, there isn’t that relief, that presence. Here there are just all the things the Paramour unleashed without anything to fight them off. To get away from his fears, they took away the one thing that held him together.

“Oh, Mikes. I didn’t know.”

Mikey shakes his head and he’s right. The words are superfluous. Instead, he presses his cheek to Mikey’s and then turns his head, mouth to mouth. They breathe like that for a moment and then Mikey’s kissing him, lips dry and chapped and catching on the damp smoothness of Gerard’s. Gerard’s breath hitches and then he’s leaning into Mikey, pushing him back against the wall, hands curved along the sides of Mikey’s face. It’s hot and desperate and he can feel sparks where they connect, where Mikey’s hands find skin under his shirt.

They move together, sliding along the wall to the floor until they’re pressed against each other. The concrete is cold beneath him and Mikey’s hot above him and they’re both unrelenting. Mikey’s nails are too long, untended and they snag and catch at Gerard’s skin, his jeans, his belt. He grabs them, gasping as Mikey scratches furrows into his stomach. He rolls them over and pins Mikey there. He grinds down and Mikey gasps, his head falling back so that Gerard can see past the clumps of matted hair to his eyes, to _him_. “Mikey. Fuck, Mikey.”

“Yes.” He nods and struggles against Gerard’s hold, not to break it, but to make Gerard hold him harder. He obliges for a moment, then slides one hand down, working to get both his and Mikey’s pants down. It’s fast and frantic, grinding and groaning as Gerard holds Mikey’s wrists with one hand and strokes both their cocks with the other. The sweat slickness of skin gives way to pre-come and then it’s sticky and hot and humid between them, Mikey arching up and moaning and Gerard thrusting down to find friction. He tightens both hands, and Mikey shudders, coming before Gerard can even think what it might mean, before he can even realize he’s coming himself.

They stay like that for a long while, both of them breathing hard. Mikey’s shivering; his body against the cold concrete now and his scrub-type clothes are too thin for it. Gerard pulls back slowly and grabs the blanket off Mikey’s bed, doing his best to clean them up. Mikey blinks slowly, as if it’s all a dream, and that scares Gerard most of all.

“We’ll get you out of here, Mikey. We will. Get you a private doctor. Get you…get you taken care of.”

“The zombie’s really apt, Gee.” His voice has the same singsong tone it had right before they got him out of the Paramour. “The pills…it’s what they make me.” He sits up, not bothering to fix his pants, and curls into a ball again, rocking slowly. “You always did know me best.”  



End file.
